The Wolves of Midwinter

by Anne Rice

  Reuben wanted more than anything in the world to wander off in the oaks and see what that was like for the guests, but he was also starving.

  Thibault and Frank took over at the door.

  Several exceptionally beautiful women were coming in, clearly friends of Frank’s. Hmmm. Friends of Thibault’s as well. Dressed in impressive and revealing gowns and full-length evening coats, they had the sheen of film actresses, or models, but Reuben had no real idea who they were. Maybe one of these beauties was Frank’s wife.

  All over the library, the main room, and the conservatory people were eating, many with the aid of little folding tray tables covered with white Battenberg place mats, and the young catering staff refilled wine, and cleared away old glasses and coffee cups. The fires were blazing in every fireplace.

  Of course there were furtive whispers of “the Man Wolf,” and “the window” as here and there people pointed to the library window through which the notorious Man Wolf had jumped the night he’d appeared at this house and slaughtered two mysterious and unsavory Russian doctors. But few were asking about the Man Wolf out loud, and Reuben was grateful for that.

  Reuben could hear the thunder of feet on the old oak staircase, and the low rumble of those walking overhead.

  He grabbed a plate full of turkey, ham, and roast goose, raisin dressing, and mashed potatoes, and moved to the dining room windows to look out on the wonderland forest.

  It was just as he had imagined it would be, with families following the pathways, and a band of musicians playing just below him on the gravel drive.

  The medieval mummers were making a snaking dance through the crowd. How remarkable they were, their green costumes covered in ivy and leaves; one wore a horse’s head, another a skull mask, and yet another the mask of a demon. One man wore an actual wolf skin cloak, with the wolf’s head on top of his head. Another wore the skin and head of a bear. Two played fiddles and one was piping on a flute, and the “demon” was playing a concertina. The others played tambourines and little drums attached to their waists. The last in line was giving out what appeared to be large gold coins—perhaps some sort of party favor.

  Other costumed men and women were passing out cups of mulled wine; and a tall white-haired St. Nicholas figure, or a Father Christmas, in streaming green velvet robes, moved about, handing out little wooden toys to the children. These appeared to be little wooden boats and horses and locomotives, small enough to go in a parent’s pocket. But from his big green velvet sack, he also took tiny little books, and little porcelain dolls with flopping arms and legs. The children were charmed and delighted as they crowded around him, and the adults were clearly pleased as well. There was that blond woman he’d glimpsed in the village, with all her crowd of youngsters, but she no longer wore her pretty green flowered hat. Could that be Jim’s Lorraine? Reuben was not about to ask. He’d never find Jim in time to ask anyway. There must have been a thousand people milling around the house and the woods.

  Reuben didn’t have long to gobble his food, which was what he was doing. Several old friends from Berkeley had found him and were full of questions about this house and what in the world had happened to him. They talked around the Man Wolf as best they could without ever directly mentioning him. Reuben was vague, reassuring but not very forthcoming.

  He led the gang back to the table, this time for more roast goose, roast partridge, and big sweet yams, and kept eating no matter who said what. Actually he was glad to see his friends, and to see them having such a great time, and it wasn’t hard at all to deflect their questions by asking questions of his own.

  At one point, he heard Frank at his side, and Frank whispered, “Don’t forget to look around, Wonder Pup. Don’t forget to enjoy it.” He himself seemed marvelously alive, as though he’d been born for events such as this. Surely he was the twentieth-century Morphenkind; but then Thibault had described himself as the neophyte, hadn’t he? Ah, it was impossible to figure them all out. And he had plenty of time to do it, that was the strange thing. He had not yet begun to think of time as something that would extend beyond a normal life span.

  But speaking of time, was he taking the time to enjoy what was happening all around him?

  He had been looking down the long length of the massive table dazzled by the array of sauced vegetables, and the big boar’s head in the center. Again and again the caterers refilled dishes of cream peas, Brussels sprouts, sweet potatoes, mounded rice and bread-crumb dressings, and platters of freshly carved turkey, beef, pork. There were steaming bowls of red and golden fruit sauce, and even fresh orange slices sparkling on lettuce, and an egregious whipped-cream ambrosia filled with all manner of chopped fruit. Every kind of rice dish imaginable was offered, and heaps of raw carrots, broccoli, and tomatoes, which the health conscious were eagerly piling on their plates.

  The masked mummers were now in the house, winding through the dining room, in fact, and Reuben put out his hand for one of the golden coins they were distributing. He could see now that the wolf skin and bear skin were clever fakes, and that the demon was the German Christmas devil, Krampurs, with his wild goat’s horns. They weren’t singing now, merely playing their little drums and tambourines, and taking special delight in amusing the children. There were so many children.

  The gold coin was of course not gold at all, but a large imitation of a coin, light, and inscribed in old-fashioned scrollwork with the words YULETIDE AT NIDECK POINT on one side, and an impressive image of the house on the other with the date beneath it. Where had Reuben seen trinkets like this before? He couldn’t think, but it was a marvelous souvenir. Surely Felix had thought of everything.

  Off to one side stood Jean Pierre, of all people, explaining to a small group that in Old Europe people has often “donned the skins of wild beasts” at Yuletide.

  To the left, Reuben’s mother and Dr. Cutler were talking tête-à-tête, and just beyond them he could see Celeste, her condition beautifully disguised in her flowing black dress, in fast conversation with one of the Sacramento politicians. Quite suddenly, Grace’s brother, Tim, appeared with his new Brazilian wife, Helen.

  Grace burst into tears. Reuben went at once to greet his uncle. It was always a bit unnerving to see Tim because Tim seemed the twin of his mother, with the very same red hair and the same rather fierce blue eyes. It was like seeing his mother in a man’s body, and he didn’t entirely like it but he could never look away from it, either, and Tim was also a doctor and a surgeon and he had that same hard and direct stare that Grace had, and this fascinated and repelled Reuben at the same time. Tim had a way of demanding, “What are you doing with your life?” But this time he did not. All he talked about was the house. “And I have heard all those crazy stories,” he confided. “But this is no time for that. Look at this place.” His Brazilian wife, Helen, was petite and sparkling with generous enthusiasm. Reuben had never seen her before. Yes, he’d seen Shelby and Clifford, said Tim, and yes, they were staying in Hillsborough with the family there through Christmas.

  Mort commandeered Reuben to tell him in anxious whispers how happy he was for him with the baby coming, but his face said he was anxious, and Reuben told him that everybody would do everything possible between heaven and earth to make Celeste comfortable.

  “Well, she says she can’t wait to hand over that baby to Grace, but I just don’t know if she’s being realistic,” Mort said, “but I can tell you, this is a great place for that little boy to grow up, just a great place.”

  Again, those exceptional women caught Reuben’s eye. A pair of them—ravishing in their exquisitely draped dresses—were embracing Margon, who had a rather cold cynical smile on his face, and another, olive-skinned woman with jet-black hair and enormous breasts was still with Thibault, who had greeted her when she arrived.

  The woman’s eyes were large and black and almost tender. She smiled generously at Reuben, and when Thibault turned to glance at Reuben, he blushed and moved away.

  Well, of course the Disti
nguished Gentlemen had women friends, did they not? But were they Morphenkinder? The very idea gave him chills. He didn’t want to stare, but then everyone was more or less looking them over. They were robust, extremely well shaped, and were elaborately dressed and decked with jewels precisely to draw admiration. So why not?

  Margon beckoned to Reuben and quickly presented him to his mysterious companions—Catrin and Fiona.

  Up close, they were perfumed and provocative—no scent but the usual human scent smothered in artificial sweetness. Reuben tried not to stare at their half-naked breasts but it was difficult. Their skimpy dresses were glorified nightgowns.

  “A pleasure to meet you at last,” said Fiona, a striking and obviously natural blond with long wavy hair to her shoulders and pale almost-white eyebrows. She looked Nordic, like Sergei, with large bones and exquisitely angular shoulders and hips but her voice was simple and contemporary. She wore the largest diamonds Reuben had ever seen on a woman, in a choker around her neck, and on her wrists and two of her fingers.

  Reuben knew if he looked closely enough into her shapeless low-cut bodice he would see her nipples. So he tried to focus on the diamonds. Her skin was so fair he could see the blue veins beneath it, but it was fresh and healthy, and her mouth was large and extremely pretty.

  “We have heard so very much about you,” said the other, Catrin, who seemed a little less bold than Fiona, and did not extend her hand as Fiona did. Catrin’s long hair was brown, perfectly straight, strikingly simple. Like Fiona she was practically naked, with the tiniest straps holding up the dark beaded sack of a dress in which she appeared squeezable and devourable. She glanced at Fiona as she spoke, as if to watch her every reaction, but her brown eyes were warm and her smile almost girlish. She had a dimpled chin.

  “Such an unusual and impressive house,” said Catrin, “and such a remote and beautiful spot. You must love it.”

  “I do, I very much do,” said Reuben.

  “And you’re as handsome as everyone said you were,” said Fiona in her more forthright manner. “I had thought surely they were exaggerating.” She spoke it like a criticism.

  And what do I say now, Reuben thought, as always. One doesn’t return a compliment with a compliment, no, but what’s the proper response? He didn’t know any more now than he ever did.

  “And we’ve met your father,” said Catrin suddenly, “and he is the most charming man. And what a name, Philip Emanuel Golding.”

  “He told you his entire name?” asked Reuben. “I’m surprised. He doesn’t usually do that with people.”

  “Well, I pressed him on it,” said Fiona. “He’s not like a lot of the people here. He has a remote and lonely look in his eye and he talks to himself and doesn’t care if people see it.”

  Reuben laughed out loud. “Maybe he’s just singing along with the music.”

  “Is it true he’s likely to remain living with you here?” Fiona asked. “Under this roof? That is your plan and his plan?”

  This plainly startled Margon, who glanced at her sharply, but she merely kept her eyes on Reuben, who honestly didn’t know what to say and didn’t see why, really, he should say anything.

  “I heard this man was coming here to live,” said Fiona again. “Is this true?”

  “I like him,” said Catrin, stepping closer to Reuben. “I like you, too. You look like him, you know, but with the darker coloring. You must be very fond of him.”

  “Thank you,” Reuben stammered. “I’m flattered—I mean, I’m pleased.” He felt awkward and stupid and just a little offended. What did these women know about Phil’s plans? Why should they care about this?

  There was something positively dark in Margon’s expression, something distrustful, uneasy, unreadable to Reuben. Fiona’s eyes moved over Margon coldly, a bit dismissively, and then back to Reuben.

  Suddenly Margon was spiriting the ladies away. He took Fiona’s arm almost roughly. Fiona flashed him a contemptuous look, but she followed him, or allowed him to pull her along.

  Reuben tried not to stare at Fiona as she moved off, but he didn’t want to miss it entirely either, the way her hips and flanks moved in that skimpy dress. She put him off and yet she fascinated him.

  There was Frank by the far window with another one of the striking women. Was that his wife? And was she too a Morphenkind? She looked remarkably like Frank with the same very glossy black hair and flawless skin. She wore a conservative velvet jacket and long skirt, with a lot of ruffled white lace, but she had the same presence as the others, and Frank was clearly talking intimately with her. Was Frank angry as he spoke to her, and was she begging him to be patient about something with little hand gestures and imploring eyes? Reuben was probably imagining it.

  Suddenly Frank glanced at him, and before Reuben could turn away, Frank approached and presented Reuben to his companion. “My beloved Berenice,” he called her. They were so strikingly similar in appearance—same clear skin, and playful dark eyes, even something of the same gestures, though she was of course delicate and shapely, whereas Frank had the squared-off jaw and hairline of a film star. Off they went, as Berenice, with a soft almost affectionate backward glance, moved on to see more of the house, with Frank obviously eager to show it to her.

  A wave of musicians and choristers came in for their dinner break, the boys looking proverbially angelic in their choir robes, and the musicians hastening to tell Reuben how much they were loving all this, and they’d be willing to come up from San Francisco anytime for events here.

  Suddenly Grace accosted him and told him she’d had to take a plate out there to Phil, who wouldn’t move away from his privileged spot right by the choir for anything. “I think you know what’s happening, Baby Boy,” she said. “I think he’s brought his suitcases and won’t be driving back tonight.”

  Reuben didn’t know what to say, but Grace was not unhappy. “I don’t want him to be a burden to you, that’s all, I really don’t think that’s fair to you and your friends here.”

  “Mom, he’s no burden,” said Reuben, “but are you ready for him to come live here?”

  “Oh, he won’t stay forever, Reuben. Though I have to warn you, he thinks he is. He’ll spend a few weeks, maybe worst case a few months, and then he’ll be back. He can’t live away from San Francisco. What would he do without his walks in North Beach? I just don’t want him to be a burden. I tried to talk with him about this but it’s useless. And having Celeste in the house doesn’t make it any easier. She tries to be nice to him but she can’t stand him.”

  “I know,” said Reuben crossly. “Look, I’m glad he’s come to stay, as long as you’re okay with it.”

  A small string orchestra had just come into the dining room, now that the crowds around the table had eased, and they began to play, along with a lovely female soprano who was singing a decidedly Elizabethan carol he’d never heard before, her voice purposely sad and plaintive.

  He marveled as he listened to her. All his life he’d loved live music, and heard so little of it, existing as most of his friends did in a luxurious world of recordings of every type of music imaginable. This was heaven to him, hearing the soprano, and indeed just watching her, watching the expression on her face as she sang, and watching the graceful attitudes of the violinists as they played.

  Wandering off half reluctantly, he ran into his editor Billie Kale and the gang from the Observer. Billie apologized for their photographer snapping pictures everywhere. Reuben was fine with it. Felix was fine with it. There were fellow journalists from the Chronicle here too, and several television people who’d been down in the village earlier.

  “Look, we need a picture of that library window,” said Billie. “I mean we have to say something about the Man Wolf having been here!”

  “Yes, go right ahead,” said Reuben. “It’s the big east window. Take all the pictures you want.”

  His mind was on other things.

  What was it with those exceptional women? He saw another one, a dark-s
kinned beauty with a mass of raven hair and bare shoulders in fast conversation with Stuart. How intense she seemed, and how fascinated was Stuart, who took her off with him apparently to see the conservatory, disappearing in the crowd. Maybe Reuben was imagining things. There were a lot of beautiful women here, he reminded himself. What made those particular ladies shine out?

  More people were taking their leave, what with the long day in the village and the long drive home. But it seemed others were just coming in. Reuben accepted thanks to the right and to the left for the party. He’d stopped long ago mumbling that Felix was responsible for it. And he realized that he didn’t have to make himself smile and shake hands. It was coming naturally to him, the happiness around him contagious.

  There was that woman again, the one who’d worn the lovely hat in the village. She was seated on the couch beside a young girl who was crying. The girl looked about eleven or twelve. The woman was patting the little girl and whispering to her. A young boy sat on her other side, with his arms folded, rolling his eyes and staring at the ceiling with an air of mortification. Good heavens, what could be wrong with the little girl? Reuben started to make his way towards her but a couple of people interrupted with questions and thanks. Someone was telling him a long story about an old house remembered from childhood. He’d been turned around. Where was the woman with the little girl? She was gone.

  Several old high school friends approached him, including an old girlfriend, Charlotte, who had been his first love. She already had two children. He found himself studying the fat-cheeked baby in her arms, a writhing mass of lively pink flesh that kept pushing and stretching and kicking to escape his mother’s patient arms as she took it in stride, her older girl, now three years old, clinging to her dress and staring up at Reuben in glum wonder.

  And my son is coming, Reuben thought, and he’ll be like this, made of pink bubble gum with eyes like big opals. And he will grow up in this house, under this roof, wandering through this world and inevitably taking it for granted, and that will be a wonderful thing.